


The Joy of Rediscovering You

by SkepticalBeliever



Category: The 100 (TV), The 100 Series - Kass Morgan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Background Relationships, F/M, Fluff, artist!Clarke, exes to friends to lovers, professor!bellamy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:13:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29467050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkepticalBeliever/pseuds/SkepticalBeliever
Summary: Six years ago, Bellamy broke up with quite possibly the girl of his dreams because he was graduating college, going to grad school, and it was the practical thing to do. He never expected to see her again, convinced she would move on with her life. Then one day, he runs into her in an unexpected place...---"Miller shrugged back on his shirt and coat and turned to face Bellamy. 'Hey. Thanks for waiting. She always runs long when she’s in the zone like that.''I dated a girl like that back in college,' Bellamy said. So much of what he was seeing in this studio reminded him of her. It was weird. 'I get it.''Bellamy? Bellamy Blake?'Bellamy turned towards the voice calling his name. It just got weirder."
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 10
Kudos: 119
Collections: bellarkescord valentine gift exchange 2021





	The Joy of Rediscovering You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ironwoodsfairy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironwoodsfairy/gifts).



> Written for the Bellarke Valentine Gift Exchange. My prompt was "miss you."

Bellamy dug his hands into the threadbare pockets of his jacket to stave off the biting wind. He needed to replace it, desperately, but money was tight with rent being obscenely priced and adjunct professors’ pay is abysmal. New clothes just weren’t a priority. Maybe he needed to take a leaf out of Miller’s book and be a model for these artists that Miller has been working with lately. Some extra cash would certainly be nice.

He scrolled through his text messages and found the address Miller sent him. He was meeting him at one of the aforementioned artist’s studio to help him go ring shopping for his long-time boyfriend, Bryan. Bellamy smiled to himself as he pulled open the door to the studio and clamored up the stairs to the third floor. He was thrilled for his friend and welcomed the distraction from his otherwise quiet existence.

Suite 319 was situated at the far end of the hallway and had paint splatters peaking out from under the door.  _ Just what is this artist like? _ he wondered as he entered the studio space. The paint splatters continued into the main space and along the closest walls. Stacks of canvases littered the floor space while some exalted pieces cluttered the upper walls, safely out of reach from the paint storm on the cement. Bellamy examined the nearest painting with interest. There was something familiar about the boldness of the brushstrokes and evocative expression in the subject’s eyes. It looked like…but that seemed too unlikely. He shook off the thought.

He spied Miller seated on a folding chair with his shirt off, facing an intimidatingly large easel. He could hear the faint sound of a paintbrush gliding across the canvas and surmised that the artist was still hard at work. He waved at Miller, who nodded and mouthed “five minutes,” and sat down on the nearest chair not drowning in art supplies.

“Okay, Miller, let’s call it a day. I know you have big plans for this evening,” a woman called from behind the easel. “Let me just grab your check and you can be on your merry way.” Her voice was rough and, once again, Bellamy found himself struck by the familiarity of it all.

Miller shrugged back on his shirt and coat and turned to face Bellamy. “Hey. Thanks for waiting. She always runs long when she’s in the zone like that.”

“I dated a girl like that back in college,” Bellamy said. So much of what he was seeing in this studio reminded him of her. It was weird. “I get it.”

“Bellamy? Bellamy Blake?”

Bellamy turned towards the voice calling his name. It just got weirder.

Clarke Griffin was the type of girlfriend that musicians wrote songs about and poets wrote sonnets for. She was smart as hell, talented at everything she set her mind to, got his morbid sense of humor, and, to top it all off, was gorgeous. Bellamy might have even called her goddess-like once after a particularly exhilarating session in bed. They dated most of his senior year of undergrad but parted ways shortly after his graduation. It was amicable, practical, and really, really sucked.

And now, she was standing in front of him with her wavy hair tied off in a loose knot on the nape of her neck, paint staining the soles of her shoes and smeared on her t-shirt, smiling at him like he’s the best damn thing she’s seen in years. Bellamy’s heart stuttered.

“Clarke?” he asked, his voice caught in his throat.

“Long time, no see!” she exclaimed, closing the space between them, and throwing her arms around his neck in a tight hug. He blinked in surprise but returned the embrace.

“You two…know each other?” Miller’s bemused voice cut through the happy haze Bellamy was feeling.

He cleared his throat and pulled away. “Clarke and I…uh…”

“We dated in college,” she explained with a playful smirk. “But then this guy had to go off to grad school and basically fell off the face of the earth. How have you been?” she asked, turning the full force of her blue eyes on him.

“Okay, I guess. I’m teaching a classics course at the university.”

“That’s kind of perfect for you. You always had your nose buried in old epics.”

“Yeah, it pays the bills,” he said. “I’m surprised to see you still here. I thought you would’ve moved on to a bigger city after you graduated.”

“I thought so too at one point. I don’t know. Arkadia’s home,” she shrugged. “Look, I know you are busy tonight, but I would love to grab drinks with you guys sometime soon. We can catch up and celebrate Miller and Bryan’s engagement,” she said, bumping her shoulder against Miller’s.

“He has to say ‘yes’ first, Clarke.”

“He’s  _ going _ to say yes,” Bellamy said. “And you guys are going to have an adorable wedding, grow your own vegetables, raise chickens, and live happily ever after.”

Miller ducked his head, hiding the faint blush on his cheeks, and grinned. “You are way too invested in my relationship. You know that, right?”

“Probably,” Bellamy laughed. “C’mon. We should get going before the store closes.”

“Go, go, go,” Clarke shooed them out of the studio. “And text me as soon as your boy says yes. I want pictures and a play by play of the proposal. And, Bellamy,” she adds, her voice softer, “it’s really good to see you again.”

* * *

_ Clarke’s brain short-circuited the first time she saw Bellamy Blake. _

_ She and her best friend, Wells, finally got the nerve to attend a house party their sophomore year of undergrad, both far too uptight to engage in the stereotypical first-year binge-drinking and partying. She remembered feeling wildly out of place at twenty years old, surrounded by packed bodies, throwing back shots, and dancing intimately with strangers. Was it too late to retreat to the fine arts building and work on her midterm project? _

_ She wandered into the kitchen to find a drink, hoping that some liquid courage would help her loosen up. That’s when she saw him. _

_ He was surrounded by a small group of people, hanging on his every word, as he told some story about one of his classes. There was something magnetic about the way he spoke, the way he held himself. It was less like he was trying to talk over the music at a raucous party and more like he was holding court and everyone else were his subjects. Clarke sipped her drink and lingered on the fringes of the room, not wanting to eavesdrop but also not wanting to leave his orbit, as strange as that sounded. _

_ He met her gaze, mid-sentence, and lifted his glass in salute to her. She grinned sheepishly and made a hasty exit, embarrassed to have been caught staring. She assumed that would be the end of it. How wrong she was. _

_ “You doing okay?” he asked, approaching her an hour later. _

_ “Fine,” she said, automatically. In truth, she was itching to go home, but Wells was still conversing with some classmates and seemed to be enjoying himself. “Why?” _

_ “You seem uncomfortable,” he shrugged. _

_ “Large parties aren’t really my scene; it’s…a lot.” _

_ “Okay. So, what is your scene?” _

_ Clarke took a moment to study him. Was he genuinely interested in what she had to say or was he angling for something else? He was facing her, thumbs hooked into the belt loops of his jeans, his expression open. _

_ “Can I show you?” she asked. _

_ He raised a brow, slightly wary, but nodded. She unlocked her phone and scrolled through her photo gallery until she found pictures she had taken of her last set of charcoal drawings, a tribute to her late dad. His eyes widened as he took in the pictures. _

_ “You did these? Damn. I wish I was creative like that. I can draw a decent stick-figure, but beyond that, I’m out of my depth. I’m Bellamy, by the way.” He offered her his hand. _

_ She took it, meeting his steady gaze. “Clarke.” _

That was six years ago.

Clarke fiddled with her phone, opening various apps without actually looking at them and closing them again. She checked the time. She still had a few minutes before they were supposed to meet up. She sipped her drink and drummed her fingers against the bar top. She would not stare at the door. She would  _ not _ stare at the door.

The door opened and a gust of frigid wind blew through and ruffled Clarke’s hair. Her head snapped towards it. It was Miller, followed closely by a beaming Bryan. She felt herself deflate but plastered on a grin when the couple approached.

“In case my text messages weren’t effusive enough,” she said, standing to greet them, “congratulations! I am so happy for you both.”

“Thanks, Clarke,” Bryan said, as Miller ruffled the snow out of his hair. “How’s the gallery coming?”

“Miller hasn’t told you?”

“Nate’s only told me that modeling for you helped him save up for the ring. Beyond that, he hasn’t mentioned much.”

“Don’t look at me. I have barely seen the piece myself; I want to be surprised for the opening, same as you.”

Clarke rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “Well, it’s basically done; I just need to add a few finishing touches. It’ll be a nice companion piece to the one I did of Wells. My childhood friends, immortalized in canvas and acrylics.”

“So, does that mean you’re ready for your opening?” Miller asked.

Clarke frowned. “Until a few days ago, I would have agreed, but I got this idea for one final piece and I can’t get it out of my head.”

Another gust of wind raced through the bar, as the door opened once more. Clarke shivered. This time she didn’t look up. For some irrational reason, she already knew who it was.

“Hey, sorry I’m late. One of my students was hounding me for extra credit during office hours; I only just got away.”

Bellamy slid onto the barstool next to Clarke and flagged the bartender. Clarke took the opportunity to really look at him, she barely had a chance when she saw him the other day. His hair was a little longer, a little wilder than she remembered. His glasses, which he never used to wear in public, slid down the bridge of his nose. The facial hair was new; he used to chafe at the idea of not shaving. So much of him seemed different. It stung a little, categorizing all these minute changes, knowing that she didn’t get to see them happen. But then he turned his attention towards her and flashed a pleased smile, and she knew at least a small part of the man that she knew was still there.

The evening passed pleasantly with the exchange of old memories and new stories. Miller told Bellamy and Bryan about childhood hijinks with Clarke, which she insisted was exaggerated; the happy couple recounted the evening of the proposal, which elicited a round of toasts and free drinks from the bartender; and Bellamy caught Clarke up on the broad strokes of his life the past few years. By the end of the night, Clarke’s sides ached from laughing too much and her cheeks were sore from the perpetual grin that split her face.

“So, Clarke,” Miller said, throwing an arm around her shoulders affectionately, “you were telling us about this new idea for your gallery showing before Bellamy showed up.”

Bellamy whipped his head tipsily in her direction. “You’re showing a collection? When?”

Clarke laughed at his eager tone. “In a few weeks. February thirteenth. You’re welcome to come if you want. Actually,” she hesitated, “I was hoping you might model for the final piece?”

Bellamy stared into the bottom of his glass. What was he thinking? She used to know. “Two questions,” he said, suddenly sober. “One, what is your collection about? Two, do I have to be naked?”

Clarke snorted and water spilled from her lips.  _ Damn _ . She quickly wiped her chin with the back of her hand. “Um, it’s about my journey as an artist. People and ideas who’ve influenced me over the years. And, no, you don’t have to be nude if you don’t want to. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

Bellamy’s silence had her palms sweating. It was probably too much to ask, right? They hadn’t seen each other in six years and only just reconnected a couple of days ago. It was too weird.

“I’m in,” he said so softly she wasn’t sure she heard correctly.

“Wait, what?”

“I said ‘I’m in.’ It’d be an honor.”

* * *

Thirty was a lot different than twenty-four, Bellamy decided, looking at himself in the mirror on the day he was supposed to report to Clarke’s studio. Normally, he was fairly confident in his appearance. He took decent care of himself, made sure he ate healthily, exercised, and all that. But there was something particularly vulnerable about having his ex (albeit, one he was on good terms with, despite the years apart) stare at his body for hours on end, knowing what his body used to look like, and seeing it for what it was now.

He knocked on her door, mind still not made up about the whole nudity thing. “It’s open,” she called from the other side, and he crossed the threshold with much more trepidation than the last time he was there.

She was crouched down, adjusting the intensity of a light fixture, and holding her hand up occasionally as if to test the shadows. She was in the zone, he realized. This was all professional for her. Nothing to worry about.

He wasn’t sure if that notion made it better or worse.

“Hey, thank you so much for doing this,” she said, hugging him briefly. “You can put your stuff over there. I’ve got plenty of water and snacks for you if you need them. A space heater if you get cold; this place can get pretty drafty,” she explained. “Do you have any questions for me before we get started?”

He swallowed heavily. “How do you want me, I guess?”

She gestured to an armchair in the middle of the room. She sat down in it, leaned slightly to one side, and draped an arm over the back. “I want you relaxed, maybe a little pensive,” she said, “but making direct eye contact with the viewer. You’ve always had a really expressive face and I want to make sure we get that.”

“Clothes?” he asked, hoping that his voice didn’t betray his anxiety about the matter.

Clarke narrowed her gaze. She was doing the thing, he realized, when she scrutinized a person and somehow got to the root of their thoughts. He used to both love and hate that she could read him so well. “Like I said, however much or little you want. I promise not to objectify you or turn you into a weird caricature. You really helped me open up as an artist and as a person all those years ago; I want to honor that.”

Bellamy turned her words over in his head and made up his mind. He lifted his shirt over his head and casually tossed it over to where his coat rested. His shoes and pants followed. “I’ll leave my boxers on if it’s all the same to you.”

Clarke’s eyes were wide, and her cheeks were slightly flushed. “We can work with that.”

He positioned himself in the chair as she had demonstrated. She schooled her features, the consummate professional, and gently adjusted his posture until it was just so. Then she disappeared behind the easel.

For the first hour, Bellamy sat patiently while she worked, the only sound was the hum of the space heater and the scraping of pencil, sketching his figure on the canvas. The second hour proved more tedious and he found himself risking her wrath by asking distracting questions. “Weirdest commission you’ve ever gotten?”

“A cowboy in a blizzard, riding a polar bear.”

“Is your mom okay with your decision to go into art? I remember she was pretty on the fence about it back in college.”

“She’s made her peace with it. Mostly. Now, hold still.”

“Why didn’t you ever leave Arkadia? For a while, it seemed like you wanted to…”

“I don’t have a good answer for that…”

In the third hour, she started asking him her own questions. “How are things with your sister?”

“Better, now that we don’t live under the same roof. She likes her independence and I like not feeling responsible for every choice she makes.”

“Your favorite part of grad school?”

“The summer I spent researching in Italy.”

“Why didn’t you ever call?”

This gave him pause. “I didn’t know you wanted me to.”

Clarke peaked her head around the canvas and fixed him with a penetrating look. The air seemed to sizzle and for a moment Bellamy forgot to breathe. “Please don’t disappear like that again. I like having you around.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Clarke. I like having you around, too.”

* * *

Clarke’s stomach was in knots.

People were milling about the gallery, sipping their champagne, and marking pieces they wanted to buy. So far, the consensus was fairly positive. But she only cared about one person’s opinion.

Since that day in her studio, something had changed between her and Bellamy. When he left, the air was charged, and she felt like she was standing on the precipice of admitting something she had kept long buried inside: she missed him. She was getting along fine since he left for grad school, she was doing what she loved and making a name for herself. But ever since he walked back into her life, colors seemed brighter, richer, more vivid. She didn’t necessarily  _ need _ him in her life, but she wanted him to be there.

She stared at his portrait. The way his body lounged in the chair made him look like a proud king, but the openness of his expression demonstrated curiosity as if he wanted to know what the viewer was thinking. It might not have been the most complicated or conceptually deep in the gallery, but it was easily her most vulnerable.

“Wow,” someone said beside her. She turned and, sure enough, Bellamy was standing there, gaping at her work. “I don’t know what I expected, but it turned out really well. Do my shoulders really look like that?” he asked with a grin.

“I painted what I saw,” she replied, her cheeks heating.

“I’ll admit, I was nervous about doing this…because of our history and because I’m not in my twenties anymore. But this feels really flattering, actually. It meant a lot that you wanted to include me in this project. Truly. And at the risk of sounding kind of lame, I just wanted to say that I missed you. And I hope that I’m not too late, that maybe…we could try again? If you want.”

Tears pricked Clarke’s eyes and she quickly wiped them away. “I meant what I said, Bellamy. I like having you around.” She kissed his cheek, softly, leaving a faint lipstick stain. “I’d love to try again.”


End file.
